Voice Over
by Atlin Merrick
Summary: Sherlock is maaaad at John. So mad he's not speaking to him. As in not speaking. Did you hear that part? About Sherlock? Being silent? Do you know how hard that is for him? But it's fine. It's all fine. Because John's going to talk for both of them. He's going to relate. Discuss. Describe. John's going to narrate *everything.*
1. Chapter 1

**Voice Over**

Sherlock was maaaaaad.

Sherlock was so mad at John he wasn't speaking to him. As in not speaking. Did you hear that part? About Sherlock? Being silent? _Do you know how hard that is for him?_

Of course you do. What you also know, what everyone knows, is that it's usually John getting mad at Sherlock, so this? This is completely new.

And you have no idea how nerve-rattlingly spooky it was, that quiet flat. Because John? He could see Sherlock sitting there all irked and riled and when Sherlock's irked and riled—which is often—he gives details, as in, you know, an itemized _list._

Yet, though John could see the man seething, could practically smell his synapses sizzling, though he could see and hear Sherlock's slammy slamming of a stack of magazines onto the coffee table his significant other did all these things without uttering one word.

John had tried to make things right, of course he did. There had been literal, abject, on-his-knees-no-kidding apologies. Twice. He'd even drawn a line under the acts and put them in bold-faced type by saying as he did it, "I am getting on my knees in abject apology, Sherlock. I am so sorry that I'm even going to kiss your ringless finger."

He did and Sherlock let him—both times—and still Sherlock stayed mad and still he wouldn't talk.

After six extremely long hours of this John finally developed a coping mechanism. And it was simple: John would talk for both of them. John would relate. Describe. John would fucking narrate _everything._

But first one more apology just in case because when you're right, you're right and this time—just this time—Sherlock was right. John had done a dumb thing (a very _Sherlock_ thing if you must know) and his sweetheart, his darling, his one-true-love had every cause to be in a snit.

"My sweetheart, my darling, my love, I tell you three times, I am so sorry."

Honestly, Sherlock wasn't used to having cause for righteous indignation. The feeling was so new it actually gave him goosebumps, which was partly why John's continued apologies fell on deaf ears. Frankly, Sherlock really, really wanted to roll around in this whole John-Screwed-the-Pooch-This-Time-Not-Me-Neener-Neener moment.

Yet that wasn't really why Sherlock was so annoyed with John, so brain-rattlingly irked he actually got light-headed with vexation when he looked at him. Even Sherlock's not that small. Well, not for more than four or five or six minutes at a time.

No, Sherlock was angry and Sherlock would remain angry a bit longer because John had gone and dropped dead on him.

...

Okay, technically John hadn't _technically_ died. But they'd all _thought_ he had and that was, as far as Sherlock's concerned, exactly the god damn same pretty much.

"I was trying to help. I wanted to help. After the whole back debacle and then the finger fiasco I was feeling a little useless Sherlock. I mean after you went and broke your bum last year you felt the same way, I know you did."

It wasn't even as if Sherlock had complained about John putting his back out after slipping on some black ice because he hadn't. Anyone could slip and fall and not only require a back brace but three weeks of physical therapy to boot.

And lord knows Sherlock would _never_ say one word—not one word mind you—about John trying to hold that lift _for him_ only to discover the thing was ancient, had no safety bumpers on the doors, and wanted to eat John's fingers off at the second knuckle.

Sherlock said nothing about these things mostly because he's a bigger man than that but also because John didn't complain when Sherlock fell off the blue whale skeleton at the Natural History Museum and fractured his coccyx, and he didn't laugh when Sherlock singed off both his own eyebrows with that propane experiment, and he completely pretended not to see it when Sherlock accidentally dyed his hand blue doing that immersion test with the coloured urinal cakes.

So, the point is, Sherlock never complained that John was useless, so _why_ John felt he had to prove himself by jumping into the Thames in _February_ to retrieve Sherlock's mobile (sure, yes, Sherlock had yelled, "damn it the entire case hinges on the evidence in that mobile!" but he'd expected a _Yarder_ to fetch the fucking thing, not John), only to go into hypothermic shock so fast Sherlock almost threw up from nerves as Anderson—of all people—did CPR, he could _not_ tell you.

So no, Sherlock was livid and he would _stay_ that way until he wasn't any longer.

"So you're still going to be mad at me? Even though I have said I'm sorry three times now."

John perched on the coffee table. Slumped on the sofa Sherlock stared past him, his gaze riveted on the television. Which wasn't on.

"Well then. Because you're completely unnerving me, because I can't figure out what else to do, and because it's so fucking cold out I refuse to step one foot beyond the doors of 221B, I'm just going to sit tight and talk for both of us. All right?"

Sherlock's intent gaze told John that the program that was not playing on the telly was very, very interesting.

John took a deep breath, cleared his throat, then dropped his voice. "All right, John."

Sherlock's pretty mouth parted in shock, and his gaze swiveled to John's face.

How the hell long had the good doctor been hiding _that_ skill?

John grinned. "It comes in handy. I've rung up probably half the clients you've ever had to apologize for my 'unforgivably rude behavior.'"

Well that damn well explained the greater consistency in Sherlock's workload. The good detective wasn't sure if he wanted to thank John or rail at him and just as he decided, he remembered he wasn't talking to his lover, not even a little bit.

As a matter of fact Sherlock was still so mad—he just now decided—he wasn't even going to _look_ at John.

That resolve lasted five seconds, when John imitated Sherlock's voice again.

"You do that John. Don't worry, I'll start talking to you again in about—" John checked his watch, "—an hour, when I shout your name as I come."

_Oh look, a wee little cliffhanger. I love doing them almost as much as I love the words Sherlock + come + John all lined up in a pretty row._


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock Holmes is an idiot.

A pretty, brilliant, six foot fool who—even after a year and a half of being bested again and again by a diminutive doctor armed with two dozen fewer IQ points—still doesn't get that he has no hope of resisting John Watson if John Watson doesn't wish to be resisted.

Yes, sure, okay, fine, righteous vexation will take a man far and right now Sherlock is merrily riding that unfamiliar mount into the ground, but ultimately they both know Sherlock's not going to win, this fight will not end on his terms, so why, why exactly is the man even trying?

Because, as we've noted on many more than one occasion, Sherlock Holmes is an idiot.

An idiot who right now is scooching his bum more deeply into the sofa cushions, who is yanking the latest issue of _Forensic Pathology Today_ off the stack on the coffee table, and who is, with the loft of one caterpillary brow saying, "Oh John, please. I'm thirty five years old if I'm a day and as cute as you clearly are I really have seen it all before."

And yes, that is true and correct, Sherlock's seen it all before.

Seen his petite partner spread out moaning and naked on their bed like a sweaty, erect, hip-thrusting little buffet. He's seen John crawl toward him on hands and knees, cock so full and heavy between his legs Sherlock's mouth actually watered. He's seen John so eager for him that he's dropped his trousers, placed his hands high on the wall and presented his arse for Sherlock enjoyment as if that's pretty much what he and it are there for.

So yes, Sherlock's…um…he's…what the hell was the point here?

Oh, right, Sherlock's seen it all before. The brilliant blockhead is about to learn, however, that he's not _heard_ it all before.

John stood, cocked his head to the side. "I've stood up. I'm looking down at you now. You're not looking back at me. Yet while you're pretending to read your gruesome little magazine, I know you're actually thinking about what I just said—about you shouting my name as you come—because your eyes haven't moved across the page for the last five seconds."

_Damn it._ Sherlock started to think that—

"And now you're starting to think that teaching me to observe more closely was perhaps a mistake." John smiled. "It probably was."

Sherlock's gaze flicked up to John for an instant. Because John's smile, suddenly it was in his voice. He could hear it in the man's voice and along with a hundred other things he'd briefly thought he lost this morning while John lay dead still on the rocky bank of the Thames, that was one of them, the beautiful sound of John's beautiful smile in John's voice.

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, he was _this close_ to saying something, but John had already turned and—as has been previously noted to the point of being pedantic—Sherlock's an idiot and so he didn't call John back.

"I'm going to go to the bedroom," John said, as he moved toward their bedroom, "and I'm going to lay down on our bed, and maybe I'll be dressed and maybe I won't, and maybe I'll use some sort of sex aid and maybe I won't, but—" John stopped in the sitting room doorway, turned and looked at Sherlock, "—what I definitely will do is—" and he rubbed the palm of his hand over his jeans-covered cock "—is think about you, imagine you, and most of all talk about you while I masturbate. Until I come."

John disappeared round the corner and into their bedroom and frankly, at this particular juncture, you could not have _paid_ Sherlock good money to utter one single word.

…

Sherlock knew John knew he was there, sitting on the steps just outside their bedroom, quite out of sight but most definitely not out of earshot.

John knew Sherlock knew he was sitting there, waiting on those steps, listening.

Both of them knew that this fight was long since over and that they had now entered the somewhat protracted foreplay portion of the makeup sex program.

So, on the other side of the open bedroom door, just beyond where Sherlock could see him, John started stripping off his clothes.

"I'm taking off my shoes, socks, jumper, those not-very-sexy necessities—"

Sherlock begged to differ. John wearing nothing but a slightly over-large jumper was one of his go-to images for not only a nice slow wank, but also for those strange times when he got oddly lonely in the middle of a busy London day.

"—and taking off my jeans, which are a little tight over my cock. I'm getting harder just hearing myself say that because I know _you_ can hear me say it, and the idea that you're there, listening to me, _listening so closely to everything I say,_ god…Jesus…that thought shot through me like a bolt of quicksilver. Damn Sherlock, we should have done this before."

John paused and Sherlock could hear him take a deep breath.

"I had to stop there for a moment, take a breath because I needed to get hold of myself—figuratively just sort of calm down a bit. Then literally because who the hell needs to calm down a bit, so my hand is shoved down my pants right now, kneading my balls and I have to say it again, the idea that you're a dozen feet away with just a wall and your own indignation between us, well Jesus Sherlock—"

Another pause and Sherlock tried to imagine what John was doing but he didn't really have to because John had no intention of keeping that information to himself.

"—I'm looking at my own hard-on and it's lookin' back at me so to speak and I'm thinking of you standing here, your bare chest pressed against mine, my cock between us and your hands are at your side, you're not touching me with them no, but you don't have to, your body, your very warm skin pressed along mine is enough to make me—"

John went silent again and just as Sherlock started to imagine what he was doing John sucked in another one of those noisy deep breathes and then the good doctor said, "Oh that got me for a moment, that visual, because I love your chest, Sherlock, I really do. You're nowhere near as slender with your clothes off as you look with them on, and I remember just _loving_ that the first time I saw you. You're thin, sure, but you look strong and long and pale and just…I love touching your bare smooth skin and your nipples, god I really love them Sherlock because they're like a sexy little hotline right to your cock."

Another pause and this time John groaned loudly. "I'm sitting on the bed now, facing toward where I know you're sitting. I still have my pants on, just my pants, because somehow it feels more …exciting…with a bit of clothing in my way."

Yet another pause, this one longer. Sherlock shifted on the stairs, angled his body toward their bedroom door. He squeezed his thighs together tightly.

"I'm so surprised how sexy this feels, the idea of you out there hearing me talk about touching myself, imagining your mouth open as you listen—"

Sherlock closed his mouth, surprised. His heart tripped a whole lot harder. Oh god yes, John was very good at deduction sometimes, so very good.

"—and visualize what I'm doing. And what I'm doing right now is licking my palm slowly and thoroughly—" John laughed a breathy little laugh, "—oh god I remember the time you did that in public. Do you? When I burned myself grabbing a cup of coffee at the Met and you took hold of my hand right there in front of everyone and—" John paused and Sherlock heard him mutter _'Jesus'_ to himself "—oh boy, um, you took hold of my wrist like I was some, god it was possessive, that's all I remember thinking, and you licked the burn slow and wet and you were looking at me as you did it and—"

John groaned. Sherlock clenched his thighs together so hard his erection quite nearly sang.

"—and I remember my face went so hot that I felt like I could have powered all of London. I've never had anyone do anything like that before, Sherlock, be so bold about how they feel about me, show other people how damn _much_ they want me."

Another groan, this one pushed out hard and low. In response Sherlock's eyes closed, his mouth opened, and a wet tongue tip flicked slow over his upper lip.

"Oh…went off on a tangent there didn't I? I think about that day sometimes though, and just now, licking my palm—it's the same hand, left hand, my dominant hand—" John smiled and Sherlock knew that because it was in his voice again, "—m'wankin' hand. Boy, veering again." John giggled. "Um, anyway, I've licked my hand, I sure have, so that I can take hold of my cock and—you know, I'm looking at myself, I don't do that often I just realized, but I am now and I'm thinking, 'God, I really want him right now, I'm so _big,_ damn it, so hard—'"

John chuffed out a fast breath and Sherlock didn't need any commentary to know that his lover was now stroking himself kind of quick and kind of roughly.

"—oh crap."

In the act of squeezing his thighs together again and tugging at his trousers to increase the pressure between his legs, Sherlock froze.

"I get it, Sherlock, I really do." John's voice was low and hoarse suddenly. "Boy, that just blind-sided me. I just went from wanking to a little teary because I get it, I know why you're mad at me and I'd be mad too, probably even more and for longer. I was stupid and by now I should know better, I should know that I don't have to prove I'm worth it to you, I don't have to apologize for being me, even when I'm a pain or kind of useless or cranky or sick or accidentally chucking out an experiment that _doesn't look like one I'll have you know."_

Sherlock sighed high and hard on that landing, because John had talked himself right back around to giggling again.

"Yeah, I get it and you were right but we're done with that, so—" John sucked in a loud breath through clenched teeth, "—so, I…that's so weird, getting even more…oh Jesus…getting even more turned on t-talking about…about you being…oh…oh…"

Silence settled in for a little while then. Well, a sort of silence, one punctuated with the soft sound of John murmuring _'Sher—lock, Sher—lock …'_ and groaning a little between each syllable.

It was easy to imagine what went on in the silent places between the sound. So easy for Sherlock to see John stretched out on the bed now, left hand sliding down the length of him and back up again, the right reaching low between his legs to massage his sac, John's head tilted back a little…

He wasn't paying any attention at all to his teeth, so Sherlock wasn't aware of just how long he'd been gnawing at his upper lip as he tried hard to keep his hands off himself, but by now that poor lip was a chapped mess and his hands were fisted at his sides, pressing hard into the tread of the step on which he sat. "Oh John, John, John," Sherlock whispered, not even realizing he had.

John heard him. And right then and just like that John started to come.

The sound of his pleasure was high and clear and unmistakable and finally Sherlock tugged open his belt, unbuttoned his trousers and, impatient, just shoved his hand—the right one, that was _his_ wanking hand—down into his pants and hard against his cock.

"Unngh," he said, or words to that effect, his long body slumping boneless back against the stairs. "Ohnnngh," followed and then several somethings even less intelligible and a lot more gruff.

And Sherlock would have probably continued on in this way for a little while, full of ragged grunts and groans and not-quite-enough pressure, but John started talking again, soft and low at first so that Sherlock actually stilled and held his breath.

"—can almost see you there, head thrown back, baring your neck, it makes me want to do it again. I've just come all over my belly and it doesn't matter, I've got my hand on my cock again, stroking and thinking about you just like that."

John paused and Sherlock knew he waited for him, waited for him to find his rhythm, and so Sherlock took the time to unzip himself the rest of the way, and to tug his trousers down, and then yes indeed, his pants too, now for all the world resembling a fine-looking pervert wanking alone on those stairs, and without seeing a thing John knew his lover was ready and so he started up again and so Sherlock did too, right after he swiped a hot, wet tongue across his own palm.

"Don't think I can come again just yet baby—"

John calls him diminutive names just rarely enough that they zing pleasurably right to two spots in Sherlock's brain—the hindbrain where sexual response originates, and for lack of a better term, the aw-shucks-cuddly portion of his brain, the one that wants to bury its metaphorical face in John's terrible-slash-wonderful jumpers. So the second John called him baby, Sherlock made another one of those unintelligible noises, arched his back, and wanked a little faster.

"—but it's not going to stop me from stroking myself and thinking about your body, thinking about those long-fingered hands of yours shoved down between your legs just like mine were, just like mine are again—"

"Oh god…"

"—Jesus at this point I can almost _smell_ you, that gorgeous wonderful way you smell when you get turned on, it's like you're right here next to me—" A smile again, then a laugh, "—well I guess you are in a way, because I'm on our bed, and it smells like you and like me, together—"

"God…"

"—oh I know I'm not gonna come soon, I just know it, but I can feel the need, the want, Jesus, I just want you to crawl on top of me and I can see it, see you so desperate you don't even try to get inside me, no, you just fuck my hip or my belly or my cock until you—"

_"J-J-Joooooohn!"_

Soft silence filled that flat for awhile.

Slowly and over time heart rates returned to normal. Breathing evened out. Then, after three, four, five relieved breathes one man sat up and quietly and thoroughly he cleaned off his belly with a couple of tissues.

The other one, looking really completely debauched on those steps, well that one, casually-as-you-please, he lifted his right arm and pretended he needed to scratch an itch somewhere in the vicinity of his left shoulder, and while he was doing that he, um, casually-as-you-please, glanced at his watch and then, you know, soft-as-you-please, he said something like _'well damn it'_ because yes, John had called it, he certainly had damn well called it.

Sherlock had indeed shouted John's name as he came. And it had all taken less than an hour. Waaaay-the-hell less than an hour.

…

Sherlock slept like the dead.

They don't have I'm-honest-to-god-mad-at-you fights very often, but when they do it takes Sherlock right off at the knees. He always sleeps like a weep-weary child after.

John, despite the midnight hour, was too wound up to so much as even doze.

Which was why it was natural for him to kind of go over the events of the evening (not the day; he'd process what happened on the Thames another time). And then it was natural for John to relive some (okay all) of the night's high points. And _then_ it was natural for him to be a little surprised but not very by the sorta-kinda-hardness going on between his legs.

And then comes the part that maybe, just maybe, isn't quite so natural. John started masturbating to a new fantasy, one he was pretty sure he needed to play out. Soon. As in—he glanced over at Sherlock, frowned—okay, not now but _soon._

Fist tight and moving slow over his cock John thought long, hard, and in great detail about teasing Sherlock, tempting him, making love to him, and oh-god-making-him-come…all while talking to Sherlock in his own voice.

Back arching, John groaned softly. _God oh godgodgod._

Yes. Soon. Very soon.

_This theoretically was the end of this story. You see I never even _thought_ of the hot-damn-and-hello brilliant idea of John sexing Sherlock up by imitating his voice, but a bunch of _you_ did in the comments to chapter one. That's why I added these final 200 words this morning which now lead in to: _"Narcissus,"_ wherein John makes love to our detective whispering sweet nothings to him in his own voice. _Good god._ Is it blushy in here? Because it feels kind of blushy in here._

_P.S. If this story seems familiar it's because it is. I originally published it here a year or so ago but this site took it down due to a swear word in the story description. Sorry it took this long to get the story back up. Will also be soon republishing a previous-published-here story called "I'll Give You ******* Fluffy."_


End file.
